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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26188090">Desiderata</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallenBleedingAngel/pseuds/Just-kent-ing-around'>Just-kent-ing-around (FallenBleedingAngel)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Superman - All Media Types, Westworld (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Westworld Fusion, Explicit Language, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Wild West AU</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 05:47:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,859</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26188090</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallenBleedingAngel/pseuds/Just-kent-ing-around</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A Wild West/Westworld AU, with a Superbat twist.<br/>-<br/>“Put it down. Please, Bruce. You don’t have to keep doing this to yourself.” Clark holds his hands up, keeps his face soft, reaching for the gun. </p>
<p>“We’ll never be safe. Not out here. In the West we’ll always need a gun. There’s a reason it’s wild.”</p>
<p>“Then let me hold it.” Clark has the barest of fingertips against the cold metal of the gun. He can feel the way Bruce shakes when he holds it, like a dagger at his heart. “Then let me hold it. Let me protect you, because I can’t watch this.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clark Kent &amp; Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne, Jonathan "Pa" Kent/Martha Kent</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Desiderata</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0mcaUcDa7lC5UpatGWlpIQ?si=1lk2uygPRpyNgVdbYyoIHQ">The Playlist.</a><br/>Also, I had a blast writing this today, but I can't promise I'll update it with any regularity ever. I've got too many W.I.P.s and too much procrastination. Love it though. And yes, if I continue to update this, all the chapter titles will be songs :D</p>
<p>The most Westworld this will get is Clark and Bruce being mildly based off of Dolores and Teddy respectively. <s>Spoilers! Without all the Wyatt stuff because my Superbat does not demand that level of mind-ception or angst.</s></p>
<p>Comments are very much appreciated! Read and enjoy! &lt;3<br/>Also this is not Wild West picked, I just really wanted to do this, and I know nothing ;DD It's all for fun!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><br/>
They reunite the day his Mama and Daddy die, though Clark didn't know it when he woke before the blue light of dawn. He slipped on his under clothes, a new shirt, for the soft cotton of it, the same britches he wore yesterday, his old dusty boots and put on a straw hat, before he got heat-sick and wracked up a bill at the Doctors. He'd been fool enough to forget, and his parents never let him hear the end of it. He started on breakfast, the barley porridge bubbling away on the stove, and the bacon bubbling in it's fat. He stared out to the sun rising, clouds overhead.</p>
<p>He could feel it in his bones. Today was going to be different from every other day before.<br/>
<br/>
</p><hr/>
<p><br/>
Jonathan stomped down the stairs, slipping on his ratty old buckled belt, and Clark leaned on the wall, watching his parents come down, his Mama rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.</p>
<p>“Daddy, you want me to take the herd out?” He asks, in between a sip of lukewarm water, swishing the water in his mouth.<br/>
<br/>
“No.” Jonathan waves him off, headed towards the kitchen, and sticks a spoon in the portioned out bowls of porridge, peeling an orange for his mother. "I'll do it."</p>
<p>She kisses Jonathan, and takes the segments of orange, laying them on the porridge. “It’d be a shame for you to waste the day away, sweetheart. It’s been so long since we’ve had a proper cloudy day. Go out and enjoy it. Your Daddy and me can take care of all the chores.”<br/>
<br/>
“But Mama-” Clark says, already looking to refuse. The debts they had wouldn’t pay themselves off, and they needed every farmhand they could get come harvest.</p>
<p>“We'll handle.” Martha says, more stubborn than a mule. “Now go and get. The day is wasting, you’re still inside, and you ain’t getting any younger.” His mama all but kicks him out of the door and his chores.</p>
<p>“Alright, alright. You know, I ain’t a boy anymore.” Clark finishes his water, and washes it out, leaving it to dry on the rack. Shuffling through the larder for an easy lunch to pack he picks out a plaid knapsack to wrap everything in.<br/>
<br/>
“You’ll always be our boy. Now get.” Jonathan shakes his head, and drinks his water.</p>
<p>“And just 'cause you don’t get chores, doesn’t mean you don’t have errands. If you run into town, get me some condensed milk, and some more baking powder. I’ve been thinking about some new recipes for the ladies in town.”<br/>
<br/>
“Yes, Mama.” He says, and kisses them goodbye, lunch in a knapsack, running off to get the horse.<br/>
<br/>
</p><hr/>
<p><br/>
He’s leaving the general store when it happens. Loading up Fry when their eyes meet. They see each other again, and it feels like a dream. A dream Clark can’t believe is happening. If he wasn’t wearing a hat, he’d think the heat had got to him. Time had only made Bruce handsomer. Roguish. Dashing. Clark wanted to stare and never stop. It didn’t matter where he looked, his eyes wouldn’t stop drinking in the sight of him. The can slipped out of his hands, and then he’d clutched at nothing. And then Bruce gave that <em>smile</em>, as he reached down to the can of sweet milk that’d rolled off.<br/>
<br/>
“That really you?” Clark whispers, and feels even more like a fool for even thinking the man in front of him could be real. As if all his longing had been given form before his very eyes, enough to fool his senses.<br/>
<br/>
“It depends. Is Martha still baking?” Bruce asks, reading the label. He brushes off the dirt, and offers the can back in a simple gesture, with a hand outstretched. Clark flushes when their fingers brush, and tucks the can tightly into his pack. "Cause I would love one of her loaves about now."</p>
<p>Clark nods, shyly. "Maybe you can come by for dinner."<br/>
<br/>
Bruce looks pensive. “Maybe."<br/>
<br/>
"It’s nice to see you.” He says, always a man of few words.</p>
<p>“You too.” Clark can barely convince himself to look away from those mesmerizing eyes, though the townsfolk were starting to stare. “You didn't write you were in town. Passing through?” He tries to act casual.</p>
<p>“I…” Bruce seems to stop, and lick his lips, looking into the distance. “Do you want to go for a ride?”</p>
<p>“With you and what horse?” Clark dares to tease him, and Bruce’s usually solemn mouth quirks up with a soft edge. “Fry’s an old mare. She won’t be able to carry us for long.” He says, running a delicate hand over her rump.<br/>
<br/>
“You know I've got my own horse.” Bruce angles his head towards the town stables.<br/>
<br/>
“Well then,” Clark says, and looks at Bruce through his lashes. It makes his eyes big, blue, and needy, the way he knows Bruce likes. “What are you waiting for? You already gave me an invitation.”<br/>
<br/>
</p><hr/>
<p><br/>
Clark leans in for a kiss, and they lose themselves. They tear at each other’s clothes with desperation, and it isn’t until the moment their lips touch that Clark realizes how long they’ve been apart. Years and years still, had passed like a hope of dwindling gold in the West. He has missed his man like a good drink of water under the desert sun. Dreamed of him upon his skin, in his bed wrapped in his sheets. Dreamed of him scuttling away before the blue of dawn, before his parents woke, out of his windows and down into the town, only for them to end their days in the same bed, limbs tangled together come nightfall.<br/>
<br/>
The sun could beat on his unclothed skin for the rest of his life, and it still would not match the lick of the flames Bruce’s touch lit on his body. Their lips mashed together, hands rending buttons from shirts, and pants alike. Pulling down their underclothes until they bore more skin than they hid. Then they were naked, bodies undulating to the sweet rhythm of their release - spread out together under the setting sun, he felt Bruce kiss at his skin.</p>
<p>His kisses felt heavy, and with each nip of his skin, he could see Bruce thinking, his lips leaving a deep bruising <em>want</em>. “What’s wrong?” He asks, and Bruce tore himself away from the darkening skin of his clavicle.</p>
<p>“I have to leave.” He finally said.</p>
<p>Clark looks at him for a long time, memorizing the press of Bruce’s hulking body against his. “And? How is it any different from any other time?” Bruce had always come and gone.</p>
<p>“You don’t-- I--” Bruce pauses, trying to find the right words. They were always hard for him. “I may not come back.”</p>
<p>“You don’t have to go.” Clark says. He knows that’s a lie. Bruce has always chased a goal. A duty he gave himself. A ghost that haunted his very life.</p>
<p>“But I do.” Bruce's voice turns to gravel, and he doesn’t say a word more, though it might be their last, burying himself in Clark’s arms. “But I do.”</p>
<p>Bruce has a duty, a goal, a sweet revenge to be had, and there is no room for Clark in it.<br/>
<br/>
</p><hr/>
<p><br/>
They kiss goodbye at the river split, holding each other closely. It will be the last, Clark knows. “I’ll miss you.” Clark tries not to beg. Bruce had left before, but he’d always returned.</p>
<p>Bruce watches him, and says nothing, planting a kiss on his cheek, before running across to his mouth. Clark lets him, burying his hands in the inky black of his hair, and hoping he came back.</p>
<p>“Can’t you at least tell me where you’re going?”<br/>
<br/>
“I wish I could…” Bruce swallows, “But it’s something I need to do alone, and I-- Maybe someday I’ll come back.”</p>
<p>“You could take me with you.” Clark says, though the thought terrifies him. All the stories Bruce had written him, had told him over the years come to mind. All that adventure... Was he ready to leave home?<br/>
<br/>
Bruce shakes his head. “This is your home. All you’ve ever known.”</p>
<p>“What does that matter, Bruce?” Clark’s lips tremble. He wants to press. He needs to. And yet-<br/>
<br/>
“Your mother. Your father. Everyone you’ve ever known and loved. They’re here. They’d miss you if you’d gone.”</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t have you. I’d have everyone else, but not you, and Bruce I can’t-- Children always leave home.”</p>
<p>“I can’t promise them you’d always be safe.” Bruce puts on his hat, a dark thing that makes him look dangerous. Like a man looking for trouble. A man on a mission.</p>
<p>“Damn it, Bruce. I don’t need you to promise me I’ll be safe. Cause I don’t care about that. I just want you to come back! You hear me?” Clark grabs his head, forcing Bruce to look him in the eyes. “If I can’t go with you, at least come back to me.” Bruce gives him one last hug, and Clark can almost hear a ghost of a promise, mouthed against his skin. He never does promise, though.<br/>
<br/>
Clark stayed until Bruce disappeared past the horizon, and waved until he couldn’t lift his arm. He’d fixed his clothes then, cause his Mama always had a sly eye for the details, and the last thing he wanted her finding was the skin under his shirt bruising. He’d given Fry a good old brush down before kicking her to a gallop, tightening his hands in the reins, and they flew down the desert road. For a moment Clark could almost hear the gallop of Bruce’s horse behind him. Almost see the shadow of his horse from the corner of his eye. But Bruce was gone, and dreams were dreams. He headed on home, and came to a slow trot when a slew of the herd rushed past him. He brought Fry to a stop, squeezing her steady, when a shot rang off from the farm. Heart stuck in his throat, and a premonition of terror, Clark rode with a fury.<br/>
<br/>
</p><hr/>
<p><br/>
Clark slid off Fry, and ran like the hounds of hell nipped at his heels, the farm coming into razor focus. He ran like he’d never get another chance to see his parents alive. And he didn’t. He watched his Mama fall, the sound of the gun ringing out, empty over their farm. The coins fall from his mother’s fingers, just like the tears rolling down her face, his father on the ground already dead.</p>
<p>Clark screams like he never has before. The man standing over her smiles. Like it’s funny.</p>
<p>Clark doesn’t think. He can’t. He won’t. They can’t have died. Not now. Not until they were old and grey.</p>
<p>Not over a fistful of dollars. He can feel the tears slipping down his cheeks, and he doesn’t care.</p>
<p>The shot gun is pointed at him, and it doesn’t matter.</p>
<p>The man is still smiling, like it’s all a game.</p>
<p>He charges.</p>
<p>A shot rings out.<br/>
<br/>
</p><hr/>
<p>
  <em><br/>
Bang bang, he shot me down.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Bang bang, I hit the ground. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Bang bang, that awful sound.</em><br/>
<br/>
</p>
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